The Boy Who Lived: what for?
by Louis IX
Summary: [AU] Little is known about Harry Potter. He defeated the Dark Lord when he was one, but we don’t know how, or if he suffered from it. Despite this and his upbringing, he might still be the wizarding world's last chance. Do they deserve it?
1. A Sorting of Sorts

**THE BOY-WHO-LIVED... WHAT FOR?**

Summary: _(AU, starts before canon) Nothing much is known about Harry Potter. All we know is that he defeated the Dark Lord when he was one. We don't know how. We don't even know if he suffered from it._

Disclaimer: _I don't own anything you might recognize. (It is the short version to say that the Harry Potter universe belongs to its owners, and that this story is written only for enjoyment; as such, I may own the plot and some non-canon characters and locations, but that's all)_

Warnings: _Possible spoilers for the official books. Some facts and characters are taken from them, and sometimes adapted to my needs. This story is an AU, which means Alternate Universe, something which implies that characters, situations, and rules governing the wizarding world may be different from JKR's work. After all, despite some similarities, I don't intend to copy/paste her whole work here. That would be a sin._

Author's Note: _This one-shot is my first try at Angst, and it developed a sequel (read: "second chapter")_

**Chapter 1 - A Sorting of Sorts  
**_posted September 4th, 2005_

"BOY!"

The thunder-like voice did exactly that. It thundered in the house, making glasses tinkle, frame rattle against the wall, and small boys recoil in fear. One boy, in particular.

Ten years.

It has been almost ten years that the boy had lived with the infamous family.

He didn't know about it, though. He had always been called "Boy" by the beefy man who was currently cursing on the other side of the wall. Locks opened with a clicking sound, and the door opened wide. It didn't shed any light inside, though, because of the large frame obscuring it.

"GET UP, YOU FREAK."

_Freak_. That was his other name. He didn't have the slightest memory of things being handled differently. He was told that he was a worthless freak, not deserving the honour they gave him by lodging him. He was told that his parents were like him, worthless freaks who got themselves drunk and died in a car crash. It didn't change anything that the boy didn't display any kind of freakishness, they just had to remember about _who _he was, and that was all.

He was barely fed, most of the time being given scraps from the table. He had to cook the meals, clean the house and the garden, and carry things around. He never went to vacations or socializing events with the Dursleys, being kept in the cupboard under the stairs most of the time.

In his short life, he had learnt very early that he didn't have anything to say in the matter. He had nothing to say, in fact. And he obeyed. He knew that if he disobeyed, he faced harsh and swift punishment. He hadn't opened his mouth to speak in eight years, and hadn't cried in seven. And he had long since stopped wondering about his life. All his thoughts were centred on staying alive, and it involved obeying, taking the occasional punishment, and not complaining.

His minders had never wanted a second child. They had wanted only one so that they could spoil him rotten. Which they did, by the way. The one which had been deposited on their doorstep was a burden, and they had decided, so long ago, not to provide anything more than food, clothes, and a roof to the boy. He thus ate remains, was clothed with hand-me-downs too large for him, and slept on a makeshift bed made of Dudley's old crib mattress and an old rug. And his free will had been squashed out of him by hand, foot, and the occasional starving period.

School had never entered the equation. The letter accompanying the boy had never asked for it, so the boy never left the house. He couldn't. The large man had forbidden him to walk on the walkway. In his whole life, the farthest he had gone from the house was the driveway. He still took care of the garden.

The result was a scrawny boy, who had too much dirt on him to be identifiable, and who wasn't taller than a regular 6 years old boy. His long hair was unkempt, his Aunt only cutting it once a year. A few years ago, the boy had dropped a toast in the large man's coffee one morning, ruining his shirt. Ignoring the fact that it was in fact his son who had tripped the boy, the burly man had punished him so hard that he was still limping. He had numerous scars, and was constantly bruised. The three persons living in the house constantly slapped, docked, or tripped him. As it sometimes caused damaged food or dropped linens, he was in for another punishment, bruising him some more.

And he didn't know his name. In fact, he didn't know the _concept _of name. All he knew in that department was that when one of them called for Freak, it was him.

That's why he quickly stood up when Vernon opened the door. He didn't even avoid the vicious slap. Experience had told him that when he tried to avoid a punishment, it was doubled.

His ears ringing, he understood that he had to cook the breakfast. He limped toward the cooking range, and started to heat the bacon, turning it a few times with his right hand. Four years ago, when bringing the clean clothes to the houses, he had inadvertently dropped the heavy basket on the earthen ground of the backyard, dirtying it in the process. The woman had shrieked and dragged him towards the ironing table, where the tool was heating. In her fury, she had pressed the searing iron on his hand, and it was now devoid of sense. On top of that, it always amused the Dursleys to make him cook the food without the appropriate cutlery.

When he fetched the mail, delivering it on the table near the sugar and maple syrup, he got a surprise.

Silence.

The silence surprised him, because it wasn't something the Dursleys were used to. They always yelled, scraped their chairs on the floor and banged the doors. They especially liked to pound on the stairs with their massive legs, knowing that he was under them.

The silence was kind of unnerving, but he sure wouldn't say anything about it. He couldn't anyway. When a child like him doesn't speak for a long time, under this kind of pressure, he would be hard pressed to say anything.

While he took the empty plates, starting to wash them, they whispered together. Whispered! He knew it was about him, though. His good ear had picked the word "freaks" here and there. Freaks. Plural.

What could it mean?

He didn't know. His command of the language was so low that he couldn't fathom other people like him. His Aunt stood suddenly, and threw the offending thing in the trashcan, while Vernon did the same with him and his cupboard.

* * *

_**Two weeks later, in Hogwarts Headmaster's office...**_

The tall man stood, his white beard safely tucked in his robe's belt. His eyes constantly twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, Albus Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump and wizard extraordinaire, addressed the people in front of him to him.

"I think that today's meeting is coming to an end. We have barely a fortnight before school starts. Do you have any question about the upcoming year?"

There was a wave of negative answers, and the professors rose as well, before filing out. Only one stayed, a stern woman in her seventies. As soon as the door closed behind the last teacher, she spoke.

"Albus, you have to do something. He still hadn't answered."

"Nonsense, Minerva." the older man shrugged, before sitting in his comfortable armchair. "I'm quite sure that Mr Potter is currently writing the answer, if he hasn't sent it yet."

"Do I have to remind you what I said ten years ago? They are-"

"I know what you said. But I assure you, once again, they were the only possibility." he answered.

"What if they threw the letter away?" she asked, still worried. "You know they don't like magic."

Dumbledore frowned, annoyed. "That is quite enough, Minerva. I thought I have been clear enough from the start. They will do what is the best for him, and the best is for him to go to Hogwarts."

Miffed, the stern woman stood abruptly and exited the office without uttering another word.

Once in her quarters, she rummaged through her desk's drawers before finding the document she needed. As Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall had a copy of the magically-updated register of Hogwarts students. At this point of time, it included each and every student whose acceptance letter had been sent, whether they answered or not. Once again, she stared at the address of a certain student, bitter tears slowly welling up.

After a few minutes, she shook herself awake. After all, she was Deputy Headmistress, for Merlin's sake! She couldn't let the matter drop because an overconfident old man told her so. Her instincts, closely attuned thanks to her animal side, were screaming that something was wrong. She had quelled them ten years ago, but the lack of answer was the last straw.

She took her quill and one of the stationary papers with the Hogwarts crest on it, and started to write. Just before sending it, she hesitated a bit. Was it the correct path to follow? After half a second, she spoke the appropriate incantation.

'There,' she thought, just as the school owl was taking off from her window, 'Now I am sure that he _will _see it.'

* * *

_**Two weeks later, on an isolated rock in the middle of the seas...**_

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The thunderous sound woke the household. Not that it was much populated, mind you. And one of them was already awake. The young boy had been watching through the window in mute awe. He had never felt so alive, despite having a dislocated shoulder and a swollen eye. His eyes closed, he had been reminiscing the last 24 hours.

After the house had been swamped by letters, his minders had taken the car _with him _and drove until they found the isolated house on the rocky island. On top of a trip longer than anything he had experienced, the noise and odours emanating from the open waters were enough to make him try to speak. He had been swiftly silenced, though, when Vernon's massive paw had started to slap him until he fell unconscious. Now, in the middle of the night, he had been watching the agitated waves under the thunderstorm, when the noise had been quickly covered by loud knocking sounds that had shaken the massive door.

Despite its sturdiness, Said door didn't stand the onslaught, and a gigantic man entered the house. Lightning struck behind him, and the Dursleys, who had awakened from their slumber, recoiled in fear.

"I'm here ta fetch Harry Potter." a deep voice boomed in the small room. "His school awaits."

* * *

_**The next day, in the early morning...**_

"...and I sayin' Headmaster, teh boy's as polite as one can be. 'd shy too. He piped no word."

Rubeus Hagrid, Hogwarts' groundskeeper and half-giant himself, was retelling his actions to Dumbledore, while drinking tea with the old man and eating the proffered scones. His broken talk was difficult to follow, but it didn't seem to bother the Headmaster, as he nodded along.

"What about your little excursion in Gringotts?" he asked, dismissing the student's story.

Hagrid's eyes lit up, and he fetched in his numerous pockets, before putting something on the Headmaster's desk. "There ya go. 't was in teh vault as said. What's it?"

"I can't tell you, Hagrid." said Dumbledore, lifting the stone until it shone in the light. "But it is of paramount security that you don't tell about it to anyone."

"Oh. Oh! Of course, Headmaster. Ye know I won't tell a soul."

When the large man lumbered out of the office, miraculously passing through the narrow doorway, Albus Dumbledore's eyes looked at his departing back calculatingly.

* * *

_**At the exact same time...**_

The boy woke up, and looked around, startled, before taking refuge under the bed. It wasn't his usual surroundings, and he was at a loss at what had happened to him. The day before had been a whirlwind of activities, beginning by an escape from his minders on a flying motorcycle, and several stops at shops in a busy street the giant called Diagonally or something like that.

At one of these stops, he had had to grasp several sticks, one after the other, while the shopkeeper seemed lost by his case. The giant had taken advantage of the wait to go on an errand of his, during which the shopkeeper had finally declared himself beaten. Almost every wand had been tried, and he hadn't been able to find one appropriate for the boy. It was even worse, as no wand had elicited a reaction. Agitated and dishevelled, the man had finished by giving him a wand at random. Given the boy's name, it would work for classes, at least a little, and he would come back later to fetch another. Ollivander, the shopkeeper, had decided to construct other wands in the meantime, for him to try later. The man had had ideas about new woods recently...

At the end of the day, the giant had talked about things like "room" and "reservation" but he had a hard time understanding him, so he just nodded along. He did this with his minders sometimes. It generally earned him a punishment because he wasn't doing what they wanted, and the boy had been surprised when no fist came hitting his face. He didn't remember anything afterwards, as he had fallen asleep at the table, exhausted by the day's activities.

The room he woke himself in seemed luxurious. Too much for him. He had unconsciously slipped onto the floor, much more like his usual sleeping habits, and woke when the sun hit the window, another thing he wasn't used to, thanks to his usual cramped cupboard.

Still in the things that a blond woman had insisted he wear, called "skool rob" or something like that, and not caring about their wrinkled state, he slowly extracted himself from under the bed. Nobody was there, and he looked around cautiously.

"Hey there!"

He whirled around. Somebody had talked! He couldn't see anyone, though, and started to panic.

"Oh boy, you're a jumpy one, yes?"

Still the voice, and nobody. Quite afraid, and not noticing the animated mirror, he opened the door and threw himself out...

...only to find two sturdy legs in his way. Looking up, he found the barman from the day before, who was speaking to him. The language though, despite being clearer than the giant's, was full of strange words, and he was quickly lost. Eventually, the man showed him a wooden case, saying "trunk" at that time, and indicating him. Understanding that he had to carry it, the little boy went to it, and dragged it outside of the room. Once there, he saw the barman at the bottom of the stairs and followed him. He kept following him when the man went in the pub to serve a client, but stopped suddenly.

It wasn't his fault, really.

Somehow, the fireplace next to which he was passing had become alive, spitting somebody on his dislocated shoulder. As they both fell on the floor, he didn't yelp at the surprise, nor did he cry at the pain, but he felt better suddenly, his shoulder forcefully put back in place. Looking at the person in front of him, and fearing retribution, he was surprised to see two dark chocolate eyes over a smiling face encased in fiery red hair. Suddenly, the eyes looked at his exposed forehead, and widened considerably. She blushed, stood up, and went to another redhead.

"Mum! It's Harry Potter!"

"Are you sure, Ginny?" asked the mother.

Ginny was ecstatic. "Yes! Look! He got the scar, school robes, and a trunk with his name on it."

"Help him up, then, dear. He must be stunned by your arrival. How many times did I tell you not to run in a fireplace?"

"Sorry mum." said Ginny meekly, before darting to help the stunned boy up. "Hello Harry, I'm Ginny. Ginny Weasley." she said.

The boy looked at the blushing although friendly face. A friendly face? It had been an oddity in his life until now... what was she saying?

"You are Harry Potter, aren't you?" she asked, confused. The boy nodded weakly, and she started to notice several strange things. Despite the fact that he was older, he was smaller than her. Once up, he had quickly hidden his face under his long hair, but she had still discovered the numerous scars and bruises.

She didn't have time to voice her thoughts, though, as her mother instructed her sons to help carrying Harry's trunk. Harry followed, not knowing what to do. In his mind, it was the innkeeper's trunk, after all. As said innkeeper seemed content to see them leaving with it, he let the subject drop and was pondering where to go when the girl grasped his elbow and led him outside.

Harry didn't understand anything at the ongoing conversation between the Weasleys. He didn't know what a prank was, or a muggle, a Filch, a transfiguration, a wand... he felt completely lost, and it didn't help his already lacking speaking abilities.

The walk from the pub to the train station was short and, apart from the lone comment about disguise parties and Halloween, nobody said anything about Harry's school robes. When he discovered the trains, Harry found himself lost again. He didn't gape and didn't stop walking either. His upbringing had assured that, even if his mind was reeling under the shock, his body was still continuing his assigned chores.

Still following the trunk, he found himself in a compartment with one of the redheads, a lanky red-headed boy. The train shook and started to move, and Harry was surprised once again, when he noticed the friendly girl running along the train, waving at him. _Him_. He looked around, but he was alone on his bench. He tried to smile to the girl, failed lamentably, and resigned himself to wave back.

A single tear escaped his eye, but he wiped it swiftly.

* * *

_**Several hours afterwards...**_

The train journey had been long, and several teens were hungry. Ron's stomach was growling, despite the sandwich he had eaten an hour before. Harry had been silent the whole trip, something Ron had attributed to the boy's being arrogant. After all, he was famous, right? And most celebrities were arrogant, right?

The two of them had had the visit of a blond first year, telling Ron off because of his poverty. The blond boy's name hadn't been hard to hear, because it had been repeated often. Malfoy had then offered his hand to Harry, who had recoiled. Mistaking the fear reaction for a gesture of refusal, Malfoy had threatened them, before leaving them alone.

They were now about to get Sorted, the stern woman was saying. He didn't know what that meant, and was quite afraid. In following the trunk, he hadn't envisioned finding himself surrounded by children, most of them taller than him, in a strange castle where portraits moved. In fact, his life had been strange before that, when the mail had started going crazy, the same envelope appearing again and again.

The woman was speaking, and he looked at her intently, unsuccessfully trying to understand.

McGonagall was doing her part, but she couldn't stop a feeling of dread creeping up her spine when she noticed the telltale scar on a very small boy, who appeared at a loss about his surroundings. 'I'm going to kill Albus. He'll have to answer me about this poor boy's state.'

After the customary welcoming song from the talking hat, the sorting started, and the people already seated cheered when they welcomed a new member.

At one moment, Harry was looking around, and there was a great silence.

"Harry Potter." repeated McGonagall after a while. Obviously, the boy hadn't heard, and some snickers could be heard around the hall.

When it became clear that the boy still hadn't heard, she advanced toward the smallish boy, and indicated the stool. She wasn't looking angry or mad, just her usual stern self, but she could have sworn that the boy flinched as if he was going to be slapped.

Understanding that he had to do like the others before him, the boy climbed on the stool and the Great Hall fell silent again. Everybody held their breath, waiting to know which House the great Harry Potter would be Sorted in.

And they waited.

And waited.

Murmurs started left and right, people still looking at the boy under the hat. Some remarked that the hat seemed bigger on Harry's small frame than it had appeared on the others. After five solid minutes, the students became restless and the staff began to worry, casting anxious glances toward their Headmaster.

Albus Dumbledore was sporting his usual smile, and he was cheering internally. The Hat always had difficulties judging powerful wizards. He remembered that his own Sorting had lasted ten minutes, and a particular student named Tom Riddle had had to wait seven.

The Sorting Hat seemed to frown, as if debating a tough issue. And then, it made an unusual gesture.

It turned around.

I was normally facing the students, shouting the new one's House. Now, though, it was facing Dumbledore. And its words froze everybody, the Headmaster included.

"We have a problem."

* * *

_**A little while later...**_

The Sorting ceremony had continued nonetheless, but the cheers had been quite subdued. The Headmaster had invited everyone to eat, and had vanished through the side door, bringing Harry, the Sorting Hat, and the four House Heads with him. Once in his office, he conjured several chairs for his guests, and put the hat on. The four teachers sat, but Harry preferred to sit on the floor. After all, he had always sat on the floor, and a chair appearing in mid-air could have been a trick from his minders. As the four teachers looked between themselves, the Headmaster was having a private conversation with the hat.

A mere minute into this, he snatched the hat off.

"You lie!" he exclaimed.

"If you wish to carry this conversation with you guests as well, please do so." the hat answered, using his mouth-like opening. "I still think you should have done so, as it prevents tedious repetitions. And don't call me a liar. Unlike you, I'm not designed to lie."

The four Heads looked at each other. Was the hat talking about humans in general, or the Headmaster?

"You know the story." the old man said. "Please tell me you are wrong."

McGonagall's earlier sense of dread increased tenfold. Was the Headmaster pleading?

"Headmaster." the Hat answered coldly. "I spent fifteen minutes in him. I'm sure of it."

"NO!" said Dumbledore, throwing the Hat through the room.

The piece of garment landed upside down in a corner of the room, but its magically-animated mouth spoke again. "Had I been a creature, you'd have been charged with aggression, Headmaster. I'm not, but, as you know very well by now, every action has consequences, and you have to live with them. Don't try to find me."

And the hat disappeared in a puff of smoke.

The Supreme Mugwump put his elbows on the desk, and his head in his hands. "What have I done?" he lamented. "What have I done?"

The four Heads looked at each other again. That was clearly unexpected.

Harry Potter was idly playing with a quill, his back turned to the four teachers. He straightened suddenly, his eyes flashing golden for a second, before turning their usual dull green again. Nobody noticed.

* * *

_**Later...**_

Dumbledore knew he had to come around, and he told them everything. Everything the hat had told him he had seen in the fifteen minutes of exploration in the boy's mind.

With a shaky voice and watering eyes, he told them how the initial backdraft of Voldemort's last spell took away all Harry's magic. How the Dursleys treated Harry Potter, despite him not displaying any sign of magic. How the boy had been denied proper upbringing and education. How he had been scarred again and again. How the ability to speak and cry had been beaten out of him. How even his growth had been affected.

The four Heads looked at the prone boy, shocked. McGonagall was too stunned to say "told you so". Severus Snape, Hogwarts Potion Master and Professor and Head of the Slytherin House, had thought that the boy would be like his father, a pampered arrogant bully, but his illusion had crashed down in flames, leaving a poor boy in front of him. The situation wasn't unlike his own, he wondered, although he hadn't been in such a bad shape. Not at all. Pomona Sprout, Herbology Professor and Head of the Hufflepuff House, had fainted, and was being woken up by Filius Flitwick, Charms Professor and Head of Ravenclaw.

The hat hadn't been able to sort the boy for a simple reason.

For all intent and purposes, Harry Potter was a muggle.

_**To be continued in next chapter: Be Thou My Shepherd...**_

_T'is not the end, finally.  
I have found a follow-up...  
Harry will find an ally;  
Won't be easy. Buckle up!_


	2. Be Thou My Shepherd

Disclaimer: _Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings._

Additional Warning: _Depending on your perception, this chapter may be emotionally charged and/or contain crude descriptions._

**Chapter 2 – Be Thou My Shepherd  
**_posted October 1st, 2005_

The young man looked at the sky in annoyance. Heavy rain again. He gathered his goats in the makeshift cave and prepared it for the upcoming downpour. After an hour, the sun made a tentative appearance and the man smiled before limping outside.

He drank from a nearby puddle of clear water on a rock, and filled his gourd as well. After inspecting the surroundings, he called his faithful animals and exited the place. None of these caves belonged to him, but all of them were his. He had spent such a long time walking through these hills that he considered that place his home, and his goats his friends. In the years he had spent guarding his herd, not one animal had disappeared or been attacked by a wild creature.

And he had seen nobody.

The Scottish Highlands were one of the most barren countrysides concerning human implantations, but it suited him admirably. He still remembered when it had all started, ten years ago. Strangely, he didn't have any memories from before, but his instincts, honed by living so close to Nature itself, told him that they weren't pleasant and best left untouched. He was sure that his limp and bad eyesight were linked to these. Strangely, he had another set of memories from before his days as a shepherd. Memories of hundreds of young children on the head of whom he was sitting. It wasn't anymore interesting than the other memories and he refrained from exploring them as well.

After walking a few miles with the herd behind him, he put his mantle on a somewhat dry stone and lied down on it, basking in the late afternoon sun. His goats were nice enough not to get into unattainable locations, and clever enough not to go too far away. Or so he thought. It had never crossed his mind that the animals were like that because of _him_.

Closing his eyes, he remembered the Beginning, as he called it. He had found himself in a strange office with people talking about strange things. They had then put him in the care of a large man but he had fled after only two days, while the large man was playing with a large egg. He had then spent two weeks walking northward through the uneven countryside, surviving by eating autumn fruits and drinking river water, and generally avoiding people. And he had stumbled on a goat shepherd. The old man, named Comnhall, tried to push him away, but relented when Harry kept approaching him.

The two of them had passed their days serenely, taking care of the goats and selling the occasional one to feed themselves. As he didn't even know what his name was, the old man had called him Deòiridh, which meant pilgrim.

Three years after their first encounter, Comnhall had fallen badly and the young Deòiridh had to haul him all the way back to Oban to find someone to help him. He found someone, right, but the person told him that the man was dead, and that he'd better leave with his goats or he would be fined. That had been his last contact with civilization.

Since he didn't want to dwell where his friend had died, he took the herd that was now his, and headed even more to the north. Since his subsequent arrival in the northern part of the country, his only contact among men had been with the farmers and the other shepherds. They started by being wary of him but soon noticed his famished state and tried to help him.

The keyword here was "tried." The man, who had been a young teenager at the time, had accepted food but never slept under a roof. Despite this, he displayed an iron health and a surprising strength. Soon realizing that he never lost a goat, the established shepherds and farmers started to give him more animals to take care of, and he always returned with well-fed and healthy goats, sometimes even with a new foal.

The man opened his eyes and, noticing that it was already dark, he looked at the evening sky intently. Seeing that there was no chance of being rained upon again, he fell asleep on his rock, and his goats did the same around him.

It was peaceful. It was his life.

* * *

_**At the same time...**_

Ginny Weasley was fighting for her life.

Never before, in her training as an Auror, had she thought that the Death Eaters would bring the fight under her own windows. In her own home. She had seen her father die first, hit by a vengeful curse uttered in a contemptuous voice she knew well, and had retaliated by killing Percy herself.

It was a distressing situation, but she didn't have time to dwell on it. It was war.

Since the beginning of the second war with Voldemort, the Auror curriculum had been sped up from three to one year, and they had the licence to kill enemies. Enemies killed couldn't be revived. Enemies killed didn't bring long and costly trials and couldn't escape any prison in the event their fortune failed to corrupt the judges – like it had been the case when Fudge was still around. The second point was moot, however, the wizarding world having lost its prison to Voldemort.

The Dark Lord had even made the island his centre of command.

Ginny had already lost two of her brothers, three if you counted the now-deceased Percy, and his father was as good as dead, blood pooling around his crushed skull. A couple of years before, Charlie had been lost with the dragon he had been riding into the battle to retake Azkaban, and George had heroically blasted himself when he was surrounded with a swarm of Death Eaters, taking most of them out with him. Since then, Fred hadn't been the same, and he was now attacking the intruders with no care about his own safety.

Ginny pushed him aside and avoided the Exploding curse herself. It made contact with the beam supporting the kitchen roof, and a dreadful sound started to come from upstairs. It wasn't Ginny's main preoccupation, though, as, while her brother had been aimed with an Exploding curse, she had been aimed with a Bone-Shattering one, and her right shoulder was broken in so many painful bits that she screamed.

Fred looked at her blankly, and she caught the meaning of his gaze. "No!" was all she could utter through her pain. He didn't listen, though. He had never listened to wisdom before. And he had been separated from his twin for too long. In an equally heroic gesture, Fred threw himself forward, and activated the device he and his twin had invented. It couldn't be thrown, as he fed on a person's magical energy, willingly given. It transformed all the good and happy memories of someone into a destructive effect. The suicidal weapon had initially been developed as a test product against Dementors, but George had used his version too early. And now Fred was using his too late. From the fifty attackers, six were already on the ground, downed by the Weasleys' fierce resistance and twelve fell to Fred's last resort attack. The remaining thirty-two recognized the signs of a suicide attack and Apparated out, leaving the house to crumble upon itself.

Yet another Light-oriented family victim of the Death Eaters.

* * *

_**A month later...**_

Dumbledore was still alive, but barely. The aged wizard, who wasn't Headmaster of anything since his school had been reduced to rubble, was organizing the resistance against Voldemort. There wasn't much to do, however. They had tried to attack the prison fortress directly, but it had been too well thought out, and nobody could get in, let alone fight.

The old man was moving on a magicked chair, his legs having been crippled by several kinds of bone-breaking curses. His traitorous Potion Master couldn't brew anymore Skele-Gro for him, or whatever potion he could think of, as he was doing exactly that for Voldemort. Snape had revealed his treachery mere seconds into Hogwarts' last battle by taking away McGonagall and Flitwick, surprising everyone.

Dumbledore looked at the battle-scarred man in front of him. If one thought that the late Moody had been scarred, Remus Lupin did break the records. Remus had endured as many battles as any other Light fighter and then more, but, thanks to his enhanced healing, his wounds always closed, leaving only a small scar. The problem was that he had so many of those that one couldn't even discern a clear patch of skin. There were wounds that couldn't be healed, though, even with his resilience. His right eye had been damaged by debris once, and it hadn't healed. The healers had exchanged it for Moody's magical one recently, and Remus was on the front of all battles, unyielding. And gaining more scars.

"We have to do something else, Albus." he said.

"I know, I know, Remus."

"I remember that you told us, once, just as the war picked up again, that if you had done something differently, a little thing, really, it wouldn't have happened."

The old man frowned, trying to remember. When he did, though, he looked at Remus with teary eyes. "I'm sorry, Remus. Really sorry."

"What was it?"

"It's Harry Potter. There had been a prophecy made about him, and I wanted to protect him until he could defeat Voldemort, but I placed him in the wrong kind of house."

Remus nodded, his eyes dry. It had been so long that he hadn't cried that he couldn't remember what it did. He had shed all he had when his friend Sirius had been cut into small pieces, all hung at different places on Azkaban's battlements. And it was still there. Remus had vowed not to cry again until he had avenged him.

"You told us that he disappeared, ten years ago, just the year Voldemort stole the Philosopher's Stone."

"Yes?"

"Have you ever tried to find him?"

Dumbledore looked at him. "It was no use. He was a muggle. He couldn't have vanquished Voldemort as a muggle, could he?"

"Could he? Muggles have killing machines we can't even imagine. They are certainly-"

The curtain around a nearby infirmary bed was thrown to the side by a red-haired witch, panting under the exertion caused by the simple gesture.

"Are you two speaking about who I think you are speaking about?" Ginny demanded, showing every inch of her mother's temper, despite said mother being currently depressed over the massive death toll exacted on her family. And having the head and arm bandaged didn't help Ginny either.

"Err..." started Remus. "Who do you think we are speaking about?"

"Harry."

It was a well-known joke in the circle of Ginny's friends that the girl had fallen in love with Harry Potter even before she was born. They didn't know the truth. The truth was that she actually fell in love with him. Not before she was born, but when she started to learn about him, and when she saw him, that one and only time, and when she was retold the last Sorting, and later, in the darkness of the night, she would think of him. The possessive tone in which she always said that forename was scary, and had prevented any prospective boyfriend to declare himself.

Dumbledore sighed. "Yes, we were speaking about Harry."

"Where is he?"

"We have had this conversation multiple times, Ginny. He disappeared, and-"

"-and is probably dead." she said, mimicking the old man's manners. "But you don't know it. _You don't know it!_" she exclaimed louder, although attentive listeners, or people who had an unnaturally enhanced hearing – like Remus Lupin – could perceive the desperate undertone in it.

"If only you allowed a search party..." she started.

"Ginny..." Dumbledore started, intending to deliver his usual speech. They had had that conversation so many times before, and he had always refused, at first arguing that it was useless, then, when the war started, his arguments shifted to more practical ones, as he couldn't spare any fighter to go on a wandering mission. However, they had almost no chance left. Voldemort had vamped the country from all fighters, relying on fear to force people under his banner. Even Hermione's research about resisting the Unforgivables had been proven useless by Snape's new inventions in mind-controlling potions.

He sighed. "Very well."

"If only you..." she started again, before registering the change in the man's usual arguments. "What did you say?"

"I said very well. You agree with this?" he asked Remus, who could only nod. Through his deceased father, Harry Potter was the last link to the Marauders, and if he was living, he would find him.

"Take Remus with you, then, and try to find him. You have a week, after which I expect Remus back." Albus said, before turning his charmed chair around and heading to his private quarters. Ginny and Remus looked at the man broken by the burden of command more surely by physical wounds, and then left, Apparating near the pile of rubble that had been a school for wizards. Now it looked every inch like the illusion the muggles had seen for centuries. A ruin.

The witch and the werewolf headed north, following a ten-year old trail.

* * *

_**Later...**_

Deòiridh looked at the sky, trying to interpret the meaning of what he was seeing. Usually, he could forecast weather with a 100 percent success chance, and other unrelated events with a reasonable probability. Today, however, the strange clouds were dancing in ways he had never seen before. He needed to see better. He needed to grasp the whole picture, not a single square of the sky.

He climbed up the nearest peak, his faithful goats following, and found himself on the sharp rock outcropping, his long black hair swept by the wind while his eyes searched the sky. Within minutes, the picture was getting clearer. He was starting to understand... It was obvious, now. It involved him, and...

"Harry!"

He looked down, annoyed. Who could interrupt his meditation? He stopped wondering when he saw them. An old man full of scars and a fiery-haired woman. She seemed wounded, while the man with her only displayed scars, but, by the sheer number of them, Harry suspected that he had been thrown in the thorn bushes repeatedly. Or worse.

"Harry!" said the woman again, and it woke something in his mind. Names. He didn't like names. The woman didn't let him say anything, though, and she climbed the last steps toward him.

"I've been waiting so long." she was saying, panting. "We saw you in the distance, with you hair and eyes..." she pushed his hair to the side and he didn't move, transfixed by her face. It stirred something in his mind. And now, it displayed so many emotions, for someone so young. Sorrow, fear, yet there was hope. Especially as she noticed the scar on his forehead.

The damn scar. The scar that had awoken him so many times in the past, shivering in fright or trembling in pain. He looked at the sky a last time and took his knife out. The faithful knife had been Comnhall's, and it was now serving him. He looked at his reflection in the blade and touched the scar tentatively under the gaze of the two persons there.

He touched and prodded. The sky was right!

In a swift move, he extended his arm outwards, the knife's blade toward him, and impaled the knife in his head.

* * *

His mind exploded. He had been in the middle of an explanation of his next devious scheme, and his mind exploded. Like that. His Occlumency powers couldn't do anything at all, as the invisible force reaming his numerous defences and memories came from the inside of his head. When that force cut through the link between his consciousness and his body, Voldemort slumped on the ground, unmoving.

The Death Eaters looked at each other, unmoving as well. Few dared to move before being told so. It could have helped, you know. It could have helped their cause to go to the fallen Dark Lord and use Legilimency or mind-restoring spells on him. It could have helped to do it _immediately_. That would have prevented the man's death.

As it was, Voldemort's body was being completely separated from his consciousness, and had stopped moving completely. The Dark Lord started to lack oxygen, and that was a sure way toward death. You see, many years ago, Voldemort had split his soul in seven little fragments, insuring his immortality. Now that he had the Philosopher's Stone, though, Snape was able to brew the Elixir of Life for him, and he didn't need the Horcruxes anymore. Especially as each of them contained a bit of his soul and the corresponding bit of power. He had thus recuperated them, one after the other, and had recovered his normal body.

Having a normal and healthy body is interesting when someone has been deprived from sex for so long, and Voldemort had indulged in erotic games with most of his female followers, and even with a few males, one after the other or several at the same time. He had especially liked torture the prisoners with the many tools offered by Muggle technology. After all, wasn't he a half-blood? He had kept that under wraps, of course, because his most powerful and devoted followers had been the pureblood bigots.

However, now, followers were starting to panic. All of them, wherever they were, felt their Dark Mark starting to itch as the Dark Lord was drawing magic from them to stay alive. As his condition became more and more critical, more and more magic was stolen from the Marked followers. The war being in the open, all his followers were branded with his Mark, although it could be in strange places. Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott, the two Slytherins who became Healers while spying for Voldemort, crumbled into a heap, both grasping their midsection in pain. Future investigation would reveal that they had been Marked there, something which must have been particularly painful.

The magic leaving the Dark Lord followers became insufficient to keep him alive and no Death Eater could think clearly at that point, as their own life started to leave them as well. Screams raised in intensity in all Britain and in some other places in the world, before stopping abruptly.

In the place of where each Death Eater had been, there was now a dry corpse, the Dark Mark a vivid red on the parched body.

* * *

Deòiridh, or Harry since the woman seemed to think it was his name – and she was too beautiful to be contradicted – yanked the knife out of his head. To the other's surprise, his scar began to diminish, until only a faint outline remained. It hadn't even bled.

"It's finished." Harry said, and they glanced at each other in wonder before looking at him again. Harry focused on her face, and knew that he finally had reached the end of his pilgrimage, and Deòiridh ceased to be.

"Stay with me?" he asked.

* * *

_**Later...**_

Since all the Death Eaters were wiped out, the news took a while to reach the Resistance. They wondered why some of them died so mysteriously, but that was all for a whole day. When Remus told Dumbledore about it, the old man sent a reconnaissance mission in Azkaban, and they found the building devoid of any life. Any prisoner that hadn't joined with Voldemort had died, and the Dementors had been linked with the Dark Lord through some dark ritual just a few weeks before.

The news wasn't confirmed at first. It seemed that an air of uncertainty floated in the wizarding world of Britain. The wizards and witches were cautious, and they should be. The first time Harry Potter provoked the Dark Lord's temporary demise, they had feasted although said Dark Lord wasn't actually dead. Dumbledore went to inspect Azkaban by himself, and ran a few spells on Voldemort's dead body. When all revealed the same thing, he smiled.

It was his first true smile since ten years ago, and the people accompanying him cheered before transmitting the news all over Britain. While the witches and wizards feasted upon their new freedom, the old man retired in his quarters in the subterranean headquarters for the Resistance, mourning.

He grieved for the fallen, and for the living ones who will have to rebuild afterwards. And he now realized that it had taken ten years of hell for the wizarding world to be freed of Voldemort, just as it had taken ten years for Harry Potter to be freed of the hell caused by Dumbledore himself.

His heart crumbling under the guilt, he drew his wand and pointed it toward his own heart. He was about to utter a lethal spell when a sound made him turn around.

"What do you want?" he asked Remus, rather curtly.

The werewolf looked at him strangely. "It's no use, Albus. We need you."

"You don't understand. It's my fault... If I hadn't-"

"Shh... I know." Remus said, patting the man's shoulder gently. "That's why you have to help us rebuild."

They hugged, tears falling freely as they remembered their fallen friends.

After a few seconds, Dumbledore looked up suddenly. "What about Harry? Where is he? Is he-"

"Don't worry." answered Remus. "I'm sure Ginny takes good care of him."

The two of them then left the drab place and ascended the stairs toward the feast, while, at the same time, under the starry night of the Highlands, two persons were finally united.

_**The End...?**_

_Is it the end, dear reader?  
Are you also reviewer?  
I hope so, so criticize,  
Or, if you wish, eulogize._

Author's Notes: _Thanks for the reviews._ _It's never really the end, you know? Each character might get his additional story, and Harry and Ginny's life together might become quite interesting. I might write more chapters, but I'm not set on it. Yet._


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